


Where Roses Bloom

by monetstcroix



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bisexuality, F/F, Friends to Lovers, Mentions of Sex-Related Injuries, Minor Seamus Finnigan/Dean Thomas, Post-Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Smut, Werewolf Lavender Brown
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-18
Updated: 2021-01-18
Packaged: 2021-03-16 00:19:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28822107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monetstcroix/pseuds/monetstcroix
Summary: Devon, June 1999. Two best friends, a garden full of thorns, and the future.
Relationships: Lavender Brown/Parvati Patil
Comments: 4
Kudos: 25





	Where Roses Bloom

Thirteen days until the full, that silver scythe consuming the blessed blackness of the night sky, consuming, consuming until it takes her in its jaws. Splitting her body open, cracking the bones into shards to make way for the wolf.

It is a sharp crescent in the sky now, a constant smile mocking her. Even the stars she has spent so much of her life staring up at and searching for meaning, the tiny pinpricks of light that dance so dazzlingly out here, seem to pale in comparison. Under the gleaming, greedy light of the moon, the stars disappear into the spilled ink of the night sky, leaving no room for hope.

Oh, one part of her knows that it’s better now. That she is _lucky_.

Hermione Granger, amidst receiving all her accolades with Harry and Ron for saving the wizarding world, had deigned to remind her of that. Lavender had woken up late one afternoon in St. Mungo’s, ready for another day of doing nothing but lying about and reading the dog-eared romance novels Healer Bellchant liked to sneak to her. The healers had told her she could be released from the hospital that month, but she hadn't had a single idea of what to do with herself other than burying her nose in another romance novel. And then she’d been greeted with the sight of Hermione Granger perched over her bedside, the portrait of planning for the future.

She looked like she had just returned to their dormitory from morning Arithmancy, the waves of her thick hair tangled and dark bags underlining her brown eyes. Except, back then, she hadn’t had a thin raised scar on her neck, shiny jaggedness against her brown skin, and eyes that seemed to stare into the distance even as she looked Lavender in the face.

“Lavender, Professor Lupin was like you, a werewolf, and—” At least she had not tried to give Lavender the courtesy of a greeting or try out the constant dance of niceties that no one but Parvati seemed to be able to sidestep now.

“I know.” 

“What I’m trying to say is, he was a werewolf for most of his life. Even before the Wolfsbane potion was invented. When he was at Hogwarts, he needed to transform in the Shrieking Shack, far from everyone else. There’s an, er, there’s a way to it through the Hogwarts grounds. They planted the Whomping Willow to bar the entrance.”

“Oh,” Lavender said. She can recall the idle curiosity and wild speculation about the Willow in her first year, but they had all eventually assumed that it was simply another one of those _things_ about Hogwarts, just another quirk that had popped up some time or other in its thousand years of existence. Like the centaurs in the forest, the squid in the lake. The truth did not feel like a grand revelation.

Hermione continued, telling her about the Wolfsbane potion, how Professor Lupin was too poor to buy it when he was not teaching, how it’s difficult for werewolves to find employment because of societal bigotry, how she’s working on some sort of law to provide Wolfsbane for free to werewolves. To Lavender.

On some level, she knew that what Hermione was telling her was important. That it mattered, that it had very real consequences for her, ones that she’ll be dealing with for the rest of her life. But thinking about it, actually starting to turn over the words _I’m a werewolf and I’ll be one for the rest of my life and I need the Wolfsbane potion so I don’t go mad and maul everyone round me and I’ll need it for the rest of my life and and and_ in her head is still insurmountable, an endless dizzying gyre of fear, anger, everything but peace. Everything blurred into indistinctness, into one endless tumultuous tomorrow. Back then, it was impossible to think of anything beyond the little cot in St. Mungo’s, its scratchy white sheets and single thin pillow, the slight groaning noises of her fellow patients, and the constant sharp lemon scent in the air.

Lavender rolled over, burying her face in the rose-scented pillow, breathing in the comforting scent. The day before, Parvati had brought a new bottle of Lavender’s perfume, the one that she’d put on every day their last year, including the very last day. It recalled memories untainted by the wolf. 

The perfume was muggle, something they had discovered in a department store during a trip to muggle London with Padma and her best friend Sue Li, a half-blood. Although Padma quickly wandered off to the bookshop and Sue was occupied doing grocery shopping for her mum, Parvati and Lavender were completely enthralled by Harrods. Even now, Lavender still vividly remembers the dizzying array of _things_ , her arms entwined with Parvati as they giggled, trying on all the shoes, even the pointy black heels that pinched Lavender’s toes, and holding up sparkly dresses to each other’s forms, making up dramatic stories about being some muggle heiress or movie star.

Before the start of term last year, Lavender had resigned herself to only bringing along her usual bottles of Veela’s Kiss and Pandora’s Dust, bought from Diagon Alley. But Parvati appeared at her door late in August fresh off a crack of air, hair frizzy with the summer heat despite the little green bottle of Sleekeazy’s that she always carried in her purse. Her eyes were bright with Gryffindor courage.

“We’re going to Harrods,” Parvati said, those four words belying the audacity to defy the iron fist squeezing the wizarding world in its grip, trying to choke out anything muggle. Sue and her family had gone into hiding four weeks ago.

“Let’s go,” Lavender beamed, drunk on Parvati’s boldness, the bright gaze of the sun bearing down on them in the midst of the Browns’ little bungalow on the edge of London, surrounded by the blooming pink roses of the garden. Parvati took her hand, threading their fingers together, and they turned on the spot. That was almost two years ago, now. 

She blinks rapidly, looking down at the book, trying to focus on what's in front of her now. June’s full moon is called the Rose Moon. It marks thirteen months since Greyback attacked her, the thirteenth time the wolf will cleave through her soft flesh.

She wonders if she will ever get used to it. If she will ever stop counting. If, years from now, she’ll take it in her stride. _Oh, I’ve got to do a spot of cleaning tonight, then there’s the full moon tomorrow night, and then I’ve got a date on Friday, the usual!_ It is unfathomable, like hoping the sun will come out in the middle of the night and burn the moon to ashes.

 _Augumenta Lunae Legere_ is open in her hands, lit by the wavering light of a gardenia-scented candle floating next to her shoulder.

She uses her left hand to turn the pages so she does not have to see the shiny red scar on the back of her right hand. It’s not the worst or most visible scar she has—those dubious honors are reserved for the scar crossing the bridge of her nose and the long diagonal one from her left hip to just under her right breast that intersects the underwire of her bra—but it’s the one that she sees in every movement unless she is wearing gloves, the one that she can’t help rubbing whenever she’s nervous. The feel of the raised angry skin erases all else.

Last month, Professor Trelawney had come down to Lavender’s cottage in Devon, saying that she’d felt called to come and have tea with one of her favorite former students. Reading the phases of the moon, Professor Trelawney translated before pressing the thick gold-bound black volume into Lavender’s hands, the scent of her magnolia perfume both comforting and cloying. 

At first, Lavender appreciated seeing one of her favorite professors again. Grabbing at the threads of nostalgia, they did a tea leaf reading for each other after the biscuits were finished with. Sybill found the murky shape of a fish at the bottom of her dainty rose-patterned cup. That prediction quickly manifested itself into reality as she wrote to Lavender the next week, telling her of the owl she’d received from a rhabdomancer in France who wanted to consult with her. On the other hand, Lavender received a moon that was nearly full but for a silver, the phase she had learnt was called waxing gibbous.

“It means happiness and success will come your way soon, my dear,” Sybill said hastily, squeezing Lavender’s hand tightly. Lavender started to smile, to at least appreciate the comfort offered by her former professor, but then a sharp burning pain coursed through her hand, through the jagged scar that Greyback had left on the back of it. With a sharp yelp, as if she’d been bitten by a persnickety plant in the greenhouse, she quickly jerked her hand away and clutched it to her chest. The physical pain receded after a few minutes, at least. As for the rest of it... 

“It’s the silver,” Lavender said miserably, staring at the thick ornate rings on Sybill’s fingers. She’d given all of her silver jewelry to Parvati the week after she’d left St. Mungo’s, trying to brush it off with “it’s not really my style, anyway.” Parvati had just accepted the gift with a small sad smile, taking the silver chains from Lavender’s gloved hands and promising that she would take good care of them.

Professor Trelawney left shortly after, telling Lavender to watch for sudden changes in her friendships. She’d already lost most of them, Lavender reflected.

The only person she really wrote regularly was Parvati, who always came the morning after the full moon to bring her breakfast and sit with her.

Her parents wrote her every few weeks and she always sent back a letter quickly, with just enough speed and cheer to assure them that she was really doing alright. That they shouldn’t worry themselves about her on top of trying to rebuild the Browns’ quill shop in Diagon Alley, yet another casualty of the war. 

Hermione wrote her like clockwork on the first day of each month, as if it was just another task penciled into her planner. It probably was. She told Lavender all about the state of the Ministry now and all her heroic efforts in helping rebuild the wizarding world. Lavender couldn't help opening the letters, sometimes. Oddly enough, it was easier to hear about the wizarding world from Hermione who laid things out in dry legal terms than _The Daily Prophet,_ which almost seemed to glee in the post-war upheaval as it breathlessly recounted every event of note. Lavender had not ever written back to Hermione, but the lack of response hadn't deterred her monthly missives yet. 

Dean and Seamus still wrote her sometimes too, telling her about the flat they’d moved into together in London, about their lives now. Even though she could muster the strength to open those letters as soon as she got them, that did not extend as far as finding a quill and penning her own response. She did not think that she had responded to a single one of their owls since October.

The rest of her life was set in stone, built around the rhythm of the full moons and nothing more. Nothing more to hope for, beyond a delivery of novels from the bookshop or a nice, hot bath. Reading _Augmenta Lunae Legere_ now is almost a comfort, the closest that she can come to searching the future for a hint of something better.

Lavender tells herself that she is purposefully drowning herself in the intimate knowledge of the moon to better understand its portents, to add more context to what she had learnt about astrology in school. Sybill had explained that the moon was something that even she, with her natural gifts and years of study, did not have a strong understanding of. Readings of the moon and its phases tended to heavily depend on context and the reader’s location. A new moon on a spring night preceded by rain while Venus was in retrograde signaled new beginnings, but the same on a summer night spoke of death and destruction.

So. The Rose Moon. _Rosa Luna._ The book renders it as a detailed sketch of the moon with all its craters and peaks surrounded by the soft petals of a rose, as if it has fallen from the sky to rest in the garden.

The muggle explanation for the name is that the moon rises with the blooming of roses in late June. She appreciates the simple beauty of the designation, but it only hints at the moon’s full potential.

With the blooming of roses, the unfurling of their soft, lush petals comes love. Or, more specifically, the love after the first sight, the love that comes from learning and knowing each other, making the commitment to _stay,_ the denouement to the yearning. Most romance novels simply stop at the initial passion, throwing in external forces like a disapproving family or a mortal enemy, or only hint at the way the lovers come to know each other. Lavender’s favorite stories are the ones that just focus on the two of them, spinning an entire narrative around the lovers with no need for any interference, and making her feel as if she is also on this journey of becoming known and loved. Even as she knows that she will never actually experience that herself now, she can still take pleasure in the words on the page, the imagined figures of the lovers in her head.

That’s partly why she’s always loved Divination. Not simply for gaining plain knowledge about the future—after all, she’d never been much interested in reading the weather report in the muggle papers Dean got delivered even though he said it was nearly always accurate—but for the form of it, the way it invited you to view your own life differently as if through a looking-glass, finding endless possibility in the mundane.

 _Beware of red ink_ could easily speak of a heavily marked-down essay, but it could also warn of spilled ink on new white robes or something beyond the ink itself, such as the words it rendered or its writer. Although _watch for sudden changes in your friendships_ , as Sybill had said, seems straightforward almost to the point that it outright contradicts the upcoming moon. She sighs and looks away from the book, over her little front garden neatly penned in by a white wooden fence.

The roses she’s planted have not bloomed yet. They are muggle roses, like her mum prefers, with "no snapping or foul language" to deal with. She had ordered roses of all kinds, renaissance roses with their endless folds, pink-tipped venus roses, even tiny white rambling roses. Their buds, surrounded by thorns and leaves, are gilded silver in the thin moonlight, the forms of the bushes dark against the fence. She had planted them after the last frost, at the halfway point between the Crow Moon and the Egg Moon. As the roses unfurl, the moon will unfold. It is a consolation of sorts, a small one, but a consolation nevertheless. It’s like the nice lace knickers and bra she wears even though no one is around to see, the meals that she makes for herself from her grandmother’s old cookbooks, and the long luxurious baths that she can have now.

There’s a noise, a small thump from inside the cottage. It still feels odd to call it _her_ cottage, an inheritance from her grandmother that she had never thought she'd want. No, when she was younger, she'd known she wanted to live in the heart of the city, surrounded by people and excitement. That is near-incomprehensible to her now, like it came to a different person. One who was not a monster. 

Lavender stands up, drawing her wand out from the inside pocket of her dress, her reflexes still sharpened by that last year at Hogwarts, her instincts to defend still close to the surface and ready to spring out at any moment.

“It’s me, Lav,” a familiar voice calls as she pushes open the door, spilling a soft golden glow out into the night.

“Parvati,” Lavender says, wand arm falling to her side as her best friend steps forward to hug her. The embrace is warm and comforting as it always is, and ends too quickly, leaving Lavender feeling cold. Parvati smells slightly of honey and cinnamon, sweet and comforting. Lavender nearly wishes she could pull Parvati back into her arms and just hold and hold her, but Parvati is already moving on, opening her mouth to speak.

“How are you? Have you had dinner yet?”

“Not yet. I was just about to heat it up,” Lavender smiles thinly as if this is normal even though it is late, past ten already, as if she was not early to sleep, early to rise for seven years at Hogwarts.

“Ooh, what is it?”

“Shepherd’s pie,” Lavender says. “Lots of veg, no meat.” Even though Lavender has always preferred meatier dishes, like beef stew and roast lamb, and she has outright _craved_ meet since getting bitten like a constant itch in her throat, she always keeps a few things without meat for Parvati. Just in case she decides to drop by.

“I’m _so_ hungry,” Parvati says, eyeing the portion that Lavender takes out of the ice box. “Maybe you should have some of that steak instead.”

“Stop acting so innocent, you just want it all to yourself!” Lavender giggles, unable to stem her growing smile.

“You caught me,” Parvati smiles, taking the pie from Lavender, setting the dish on the table, and heating it up with a warming charm.

“I always do,” Lavender says, sitting down across from Parvati at the little wooden table, setting down her own warmed plate on the intricately patterned tablecloth. It’s seafoam cotton embroidered with golden vines and little birds, a set of robes her parents had gotten her ten birthdays ago that she’d repurposed into a table covering, not wanting to simply get rid of the lovely fabric.

She quickly performs a wordless spell to get the scents of her dinner floating away from Parvati and towards the open window—as a lifelong vegetarian, Parvati has never been very fond of the smells of meat even though she never admits it, just wrinkles her nose a tiny bit when she thinks no one is looking—and they start eating. The steak, rare as it can be without being outright raw, is delicious and exactly what she needs. 

“How is work going?” Lavender asks once they’ve finished their meal, watching Parvati drink from her glass of water, watching the long line of her brown throat.

“It’s going well at Gringotts! I think Delacour’s finally starting to warm up to me.”

“That’s good,” Lavender murmurs. She almost feels like they are talking about one of her romance novels, as if Gringotts and Diagon Alley and the rest of the wizarding world are all as far away as one of the stories’ long-lost kingdoms or made-up manors.

“She, um, she told me that we were both welcome for dinner at her and Bill Weasley’s place any time,” Parvati continues, a note of hesitation entering her voice as she glances down at her picked-clean plate.

“Oh." 

“If you wanted to, you know—any time, I mean. Just say the word,” Parvati says, uncharacteristically clumsy with her words. Since he’s like you, a werewolf, is what she’s not saying.

“I don’t think so,” Lavender sighs, a long low sound. “But thank you.”

“Okay,” Parvati says, glancing up at her as she sweeps back the curtain of her shiny dark hair. The movement draws Lavender’s eye to something new, the glimmer of gold around her neck, dipping low enough that it’s just above the shadow between her breasts, the light purple collar of her top. Not that Lavender is looking. She swallows, takes a sip of water to wet her suddenly-dry mouth, and looks up at Parvati’s deep brown eyes.

“You got a new necklace,” Lavender remembers the old one well. Parvati had always worn a silver necklace with an ornately-wrought little _P_ on it to match Padma.

“Do you like it?” Parvati asks, taking the pendant between her fingers and holding it forward so Lavender can see it better. It’s actually two charms, jangling slightly against each other. Two flowers with countless petals, the fronds of the first one curling towards a small sapphire center and the other, a ruby center. Mirrors of each other, until you looked closer.

“My sister’s name means lotus,” Parvati says softly, almost reverently. Almost as if of its own accordance, Lavender’s finger reaches out to brush the charms, feeling the little petals of the lotuses, the way the smooth gold is still warm from Parvati’s fingers.

“They’re beautiful,” she says, withdrawing her hand.

“Padma said they were a bit on the nose,” Parvati laughs. “I told her it’s not any worse than having your own initials round your neck.”

“Did you… did you give her your old necklace?”

“Yeah. I gave her all the silver jewelry I had, everything you gave me,” Parvati says. “It looks better on her. I’m just a bit too warm-toned for silver jewelry. It doesn’t look good on me at all, washes me out, you know.”

They’re identical twins. Lavender smiles, her face warming with happiness. Her heart is beating oddly fast and her fingers twitch against her thighs, as if they want to reach out for something. To ground herself, she takes a small breath and shifts, tracing the scar on the back of her right hand with the fingers of her left, her hands tucked underneath the tablecloth.

“Anyway, um,” she falters, then starts again, finding an easy line of conversation, one that is well-worn between them. “Fancy anyone new? I’m sure a cute guy must come into Gringotts every once in a while.”

“Um,” Parvati stills, her eyes widening slightly. “The thing is…”

When she doesn’t continue, Lavender raises her eyebrows. “What? Don’t tell me you’ve fallen for one of the goblins.”

“No, no,” Parvati laughs, almost frantically. She glances around the small main room of the cottage as if she is trying to find an escape, a distraction.

“What?” Lavender presses.

“Er, it’s that,” Parvati finally seems to halt her search of the room, staring down at her lap with her thick eyebrows furrowed slightly.

“Er, it’s what?” This would almost seem like one of their gossip sessions back at Hogwarts under the covers of one of their beds, sharing secrets and laughter, if it wasn’t for the tension in the air, the slight undercurrent of fear that has never completely left them since Hogwarts fell.

“I’m,” Parvati seems to stop herself, but then she takes a breath and starts again. “It’s not just blokes.”

“Huh?” Lavender’s heartbeat is suddenly spinning out of control. She can’t mean—

“I’m bisexual. The people I fancy aren’t just boys. I mean, they’re mostly… not blokes,” Parvati says in a rush. Her eyes are plaintive, her voice almost pleading.

“Oh,” Lavender says softly. _Oh._ “But we… we only talked about boys all the time. Did that make you feel…”

“No, no, it was fun!” Parvati says hastily. “But back then, I thought the only thing I could ever have was, you know, the whole fantasy of a handsome wizard in shining robes. And when I realized that I could want other things too, well…”

“Well, you can have anything you want… Anyone you want, I mean,” Lavender manages. Her head is whirling out of control, the tepid air of her cottage, her life, disturbed after so long.

“I’ve been, um, earlier this spring, I was seeing a girl who worked at the Leaky Cauldron,” Parvati continues. Lavender is suddenly hit by a wave of sickness, a violent clench around her stomach. She takes another sip of water, but it does not quell the rising tide of anxiety at all.

“Nothing came of it!” Parvati adds quickly. “But even just being out with her on a date was so nice. Probably the best date I’ve ever had… though it doesn’t take much to beat the Yule Ball with Harry in fourth year.”

They both laugh at that, an island of easy understanding between them.

“But, er,” Lavender ventures, trying to remember what she knows about this. About gay, lesbian, bisexual, transgender magic-users, about anyone who did not fit into the sharp narrow words of _normal, typical, usual_. When Dean and Seamus had stepped out of the ruin of the Great Hall holding hands, no one had given them a second look, nothing other than a smile and whispers about having a little more love in the world. But there was never any literature on it at Hogwarts, beyond the odd mention of a witch living with a female friend for a century and never marrying, or someone that was not a witch or wizard. Other books, though… “Is it something that you just _know_?”

“I guess so, for some people. For me, yeah,” Parvati says thoughtfully. “I read about Gwynog Jones and her wife when she came out last year, and er, I suppose that got me thinking… I don’t know, the idea of two women together just seemed so _nice_ and I kept thinking about it for weeks and weeks, and wondering why I couldn’t just have that. And then I realized I could.”

“That makes sense,” Lavender nods. And then she continues, a part of her that has been buried deep for a very long time finally reaching forth, despite the anxiety gripping her throat. “And um, if you want, you can talk to me about girls too. Like we used to boys.”

Parvati laughs, the sound sending cold shame down Lavender’s spine, opening up a yawning sea between them. “Lavender, you don’t like girls.”

“I don’t know, I mean, why not,” Lavender says, somewhat desperately, feeling as if she is suddenly sinking. She thinks back to the stack of romance novels she has piled up in her bedroom. Some of them had the typical love interests, broody handsome wizards with a sorrowful past or a deep dark secret, and well, some of them featured a busty femme fatale on the cover or a handsome woman in a suit with short slicked back hair and a smirk. She had seen those novels in the back of _Flourish and Blotts_ a long time ago, but hadn’t even attempted giving them a second glance, so worried about what others might think back then.

Recovering in St. Mungo’s, among other people too bloodied and battered to care much else about anything other than the fact they were still alive, had started eroding that shame. She had accepted all of Healer Bellchant’s offered paperbacks, left behind by past patients, even the ones that very obviously had two women intimately embracing on the cover. “All old Smythe cares about is getting sensation back in his arm,” the healer said when Lavender first hesitated, nodding their head to the man the bed over who was recovering from several nasty serpent bites. 

And now, out here in this little cottage in Devon, she can order whatever she wants from Flourish and Blotts’ mail-order catalog. She does not have to worry about the judgmental look the shopkeeper might give her or the disapproval of the other shoppers. No, she can let herself have whatever she wants in this area now, at least.

“Sorry, I don’t mean… are you figuring things out?” Parvati asks, more delicately.

“Maybe. I don’t know,” Lavender shakes her head. “It’s not like it matters, anyway.”

“Lavender,” Parvati says. Lavender looks up at her friend, her beautiful dark eyes framed by long lashes, the mesmerizing curve of her aquiline nose, the wavy hair falling over her shoulders, looking nearly like a portrait in the firelight. And what is Lavender? “It matters.”

“Who wants to date a werewolf?” Lavender says. The words are claw-sharp as they come out, driving down to the bone of her fears, but it is a necessary pain.

“Yes, who’d fancy someone so beautiful with gorgeous curly blond hair and who always smells lovely? Someone who’s a wonderful cook and gardener? Someone who’s one of the sweetest girls I’ve ever known?” Parvati says, a small smile playing on her lips. But her eyes are sad.

“Who would ever fancy a mons—” Lavender starts, hoping to shock Parvati out of this with bluntness, see that there’s nothing for Lavender anymore. Instead, Parvati inhales sharply, her eyes widening. She sits up very straight, her body rigid. 

“Don’t. Don’t ever say that,” Parvati says, her breath coming fast. “Please. If not… For me, at least.” 

“I… I’m sorry,” Lavender sighs. She’s been wallowing in self-pity again and now she’s dragging Parvati down with her. It’s like that time in sixth year she moped for weeks after Ron had broken up with her and Parvati had gotten drawn into her misery too, the two of them lying in bed and eating chocolate all day. Dean had finally let Padma into Gryffindor Tower and she had stormed into their dormitory, urging them both to get it together. “Really, you don’t have to worry about me,” Lavender forces a smile. “I’m sure you have to get to work early tomorrow. You should get going.”

“I… alright,” Parvati says hesitantly. She gets up, putting her arms around Lavender, giving her a little squeeze, but it is brief and hasty, only fleeting warmth before she pulls away. The air is still tense between them, the interrupted word of _monster_ still hanging in the air between them.

“Bye,” Lavender says softly, watching Parvati go to the fireplace and grab a handful of Floo powder. Wonderful. She’s just chased her only friend away.

Alone again. Lavender is suddenly very tired. There is a storm of emotions under the surface of attention, all battling each other for her attention. If she could sum up how she is feeling in any word other than _confused_ or _tired_ , that would be a miracle. At least her bed presents an easy remedy for the latter.

* * *

It’s slightly drizzling, so Lavender is curled up on the sofa, her golden curls spilling out onto the plush violet cushions and _Augmenta Lunae Legere_ held in front of her. The chart, with its tiny numbers and illustrated shining silver symbols for each astrological sign, tells her of the significance of the coming full moon.

Capricorn, the ram rising and setting, bucking its inky head on the page, and cancer, the reigning crab crawling around the lines of the chart. As they forecast the lives of those born under them, they forecast the moon and the coming month it heralds.

The reading is almost contradictory. With the ram comes rationality, responsibility, and objectiveness, but the crab under a full moon is mercurial and excitable, skittering from one idea to the next.

Lavender sighs, rolling over to face the ceiling. She lays the book on her chest as she thinks. When the foretokens of the future contradict each other, it’s easy to come to the conclusion that there’ll be some sort of conflict, the ram and crab butting heads. But what does it _mean_ for her, for life in this little cottage that she’s confined herself to? The moon governs her blood and directs her entire life now, so there must be something that she needs to look out for under the coming moon, something that she is missing… She feels like she is on the very edge of understanding, but the last step to look the meaning in the eye seems an impossible gap to bridge.

She sighs again, the noise loud and lonely in the cottage. There is a half-full bottle of ember brandy in the cabinet. The thought of it is already bringing memories of its sharp-sweet cinnamon taste to her tongue and the blessed haze in her head, the feeling that maybe everything will be okay, maybe it’s really alright that she’s a—

There’s a loud sound from the unlit fireplace and Lavender jumps up as emerald flames burst into existence. A familiar figure comes into existence, stepping out of the fireplace with her head bent slightly to avoid knocking her head on the mantle. Parvati.

“Hi Lav!” she says, standing up and dusting off her shell-pink robes, the white embroidery of them following the curve of her body, drawing Lavender’s eyes to the lines of her hips, her waist, her—

“Hi there,” Lavender says quickly, jerking her gaze up to Parvati’s face. She seems a little nervous, her mouth barely curved up in a smile, almost like she’s not sure of Lavender’s reaction. Lavender has the sudden sensation of an unbridged gap between them, a chasm opening up in the few feet between the sofa and fireplace. She inhales, rubbing her fingers over her scarred hand.

Lavender might not be able to properly understand anything about the future, but she knows that she does not want a sudden change in their friendship to be in her future. So, she stands up, pushing herself off the sofa and stepping towards Parvati, pulling her into an embrace, tucking her face into the warm curve where Parvati’s neck and shoulder meet.

She smells like lilacs and lavender today, the scent lingering. The plant that she shares a name with has never been one of Lavender’s favorites, but now its scent brings forth a memory that has warmth blooming in her chest.

Seventh year, hiding behind the wildflowers dotting the tall grasses behind the greenhouse as Alecto Carrow prowled the grounds for anyone out past hours. As Carrow’s footsteps receded into the distance, Parvati had plucked a little spray of lavender and tucked it into the pocket of her robes. She’d smiled slightly and then leaned forward to whisper into Lavender’s ear, “It’s my favorite. Has to be, it’s _you_.”

“I thought you’d be out at the Leaky Cauldron or something. It’s Friday night!” Lavender comments as she pulls away, half-hoping that Parvati catches the implication behind that _something._

She does, of course. They’d always been good at communicating with each other through seemingly-innocuous words dripping with implications and eyebrows raised at just the right moment, making them both break out in giggles as everyone else looked on cluelessly. In seventh year, that had evolved into glancing at each other and understanding what the other’s next move would be with a tilt of the head or a half-shrug, together swiftly moving injured students through the halls past the eyes of the Carrows and their Slytherin agents, and into the Room of Requirement.

“No, no dates,” Parvati smiles, but there’s still a nervous undercurrent to it in the way that her smile is restrained, her eyes searching Lavender for a sign of _something_. “To tell you the truth, I’m not really looking for anything with someone new…”

“Oh,” Lavender says. “Someone you know, then? From Hogwarts?”

“Like who?” Parvati raises an eyebrow and Lavender catches the challenge in it. Just like old times under covers, giggling about the boys that they fancied, making each other guess who it was. All that’s changed is that it’s not just limited to boys, Lavender tells herself.

“Well, I’m pretty sure it’s not Dean or Seamus!” Lavender forces laughter into her voice, walking to the kitchen. She pulls out a carton of vanilla ice cream from the icebox along with the ember brandy and bowls for the ice cream from the cabinet. Just like old times, except they’d been eating sweets from the kitchens or Hogsmeade and there was no burn of alcohol down their throats, only the comforting warmth of hot chocolate.

“Definitely not,” Parvati laughs easily. “Have you been to see them? I went over for dinner with Padma and Sue a couple of weeks ago.”

Lavender’s hand around the pink crystal topper of the brandy freezes, anxiety and guilt coursing through her as she remembers all the unanswered letters from Dean and Seamus for the past several months, always asking after her, enthusiastically telling her about Seamus’s Auror training and Dean’s continued studies in magical art as they moved on with their lives. “No. I haven’t.”

“Oh,” Parvati says. “You could, you know. They’d love to have you.”

“I know,” Lavender murmurs, finally unscrewing the top of the bottle and pouring the golden liquid into two glasses. She levitates them, along with the bowls of ice cream, to the coffee table.

“Yummy,” Parvati comments as Lavender settles in next to her, unfolding the cozy saffron-colored quilt that always hangs over the back of the sofa to cover both of their legs. She tucks her legs under her body as she settles in, trying to focus on something other than the warm line of Parvati’s body against her side.

“So, um,” Lavender says, recalling who else had been in their year as well as the ones above and below. Her knowledge of them, where they are now, feels woefully out-of-date, coated in a thick layer of dust. She can’t remember ever taking so little an interest before, but looking up her old classmates and seeing how they’re progressing in life while she’s come to a standstill summed up in the four syllables of _lycanthropy_ is a slap in the face. “Harry and Ginny are still together and so are, er, Hermione and Ron?”

“Yeah,” Parvati says. “Ginny’s signed on with the Harpies for next season. I think Harry’s still in Auror training.”

“Oh, that’s nice,” Lavender says. She knows that if she asked, Parvati would tell her all about Ron and Hermione, poke at the dead cinders of their relationship and whatever Hermione is doing now about her, her _rights._ She appreciates the choice. “So, um, no one in Gryffindor, then?”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Parvati murmurs, a hand playing with her necklace. It glints slightly in the light.

Lavender takes another heaping spoonful of ice cream into her mouth and then another sip of ember brandy, all of it melting together into spicy sweetness in her mouth. “Not Neville?”

“No!” Parvati laughs. “I mean, he’s nice... not bad-looking, but he's only a friend. And I think Hannah fancies him.”

“She’s sweet,” Lavender says, remembering the blond Hufflepuff. She had sent Lavender a letter last December with a package of Honeydukes chocolate, saying that she hoped Lavender was doing well. Another unanswered letter that’s been lying on Lavender’s desk for the past several months, gathering dust and regrets.

She glances at Parvati, at the sweep of her inky hair over her collarbones where she’s unbuttoned her robes, the pink of the velvety cloth vibrant against her warm brown skin. Parvati’s eyes meet her own with an unspoken question in the raise of her brows.

Lavender suddenly does not want to know the answer, the abrupt realization gripping her throat tightly. She turns away, glancing at the thick volume on the table, the gold of the embossed moon on the cover. It changes with the actual phases of the moon, the creep of the shining golden threads over the cover imperceptible. Right now, it is waxing crescent.

“Um, I’ve been reading about lunamancy. Reading the future in the phases of the moon. They didn’t cover this in school because it’s a bit complicated and a lot of it is really theoretical, but it’s interesting.”

“Oh?” Parvati says with interest, following her gaze. She leans forward and Lavender’s eyes, as if of their own accord, flit to the curve of her chest as Parvati picks the book up. Lavender’s face is so hot that it feels rather like she’s crouching right over the flames in the fireplace. She rubs the scar on her hand, biting down on the inside of her mouth, and focuses her gaze away, down at the book in Parvati’s hand as she pages through it, white pages flashing.

“Oh, this is interesting!” Parvati exclaims, finally stopping on a page about the Hunter Moon. Here, the illustration of the moon with all its peaks and craters is bisected by a crossed bow and arrow. _Luna vevenandi,_ sometimes called _luna in sanguinem_. “I think this would be the same time as this festival called Sharad Poonam… we don’t really celebrate it properly, but we always have a bit of kheer.”

Her lips move silently as she starts reading the page, lips curling around how it portends the culmination of one’s struggles, how it can be a harbinger of life or death in the coming darkness.

“All the moons symbolize different things. Er, the one that’s coming soon, this month, is called the Rose Moon,” Lavender says.

“I hope that one’s a bit more cheery!” Parvati says, looking up at Lavender. She bites her lips, white teeth flashing against her lush red mouth. Lavender’s fingers twitch and feel nothing but the soft fabric of the quilt. “I mean, roses are usually associated with love and affection, wonderful things like that.”

“It is, yeah,” Lavender breathes out. Of course they’ve already circled back around to this, as inevitable as the filling out of the moon. “That’s a good sign for you.”

“Not you?”

“I thought we were talking about you!” Lavender retorts, trying to inject some good cheer into her voice. From the forlorn look on Parvati’s face, she fails.

“I mean. They kind of go together,” Parvati mutters, looking away, and suddenly, Lavender’s blood is roaring in her ears, her heart beating as if she’s just run up a flight of stairs.

“What. What do you mean,” Lavender says, even though she _knows,_ knows Parvati, knows _exactly_ what she means. Even with the distance that sometimes rises between them when they are face-to-face, they are not so far gone that she does not understand these words.

Parvati reaches a hand forward and Lavender meets it with her own, twining their fingers together. Her pulse is fast, mirrored by the rapid beat of Lavender’s own heart. They stare at each other, Parvati’s eyes so dark that they make Lavender think of the star-strewn night sky, containing endless possibilities. Her full lips are slightly parted, already making Lavender want to reach for more, meet Parvati in every single way possible on this earth. Cupid’s bow, indeed. That pixie, subject of so many love poems, has struck her dead center. When Parvati’s other hand gently strokes over the raised scar on the back of Lavender’s hand, she welcomes it, leaning closer.

“See, there’s this girl I fancy,” Parvati starts.

“Tell me about her,” Lavender says, almost desperately, pleading.

“She has the prettiest hair, the most beautiful blond curls,” and here, Parvati brushes a lock out of Lavender’s hair out of her eyes, gently tucking it behind her ear. Oh. They’ve played this game before, but never like this, with her veins thrumming, overfull of want coiled so tightly that it’s apt to snap at the slightest hint, the slightest touch. Never when the object of the game was each other.

“And um, there’s this girl with the most beautiful long hair, everyone says it’s just plain black but really, if you look properly, it’s the darkest brown and it’s always so soft in my hands,” Lavender returns, reaching her free hand forward to brush Parvati’s hair out of her face, gently tucking it behind her ear. “And your—her eyes, they’re so lovely I could look into them forever.”

“Oh, Lav,” Parvati breathes and that’s it—Lavender surges forward, her scarlet and gold courage finally rearing its head as she presses their lips together. Parvati’s lips are soft and warm and inviting, parting immediately for her as they draw closer together. As Parvati threads a hand through her hair, the other stroking her hip, Lavender’s body feels magic made manifest, thrumming with energy and need. She takes Parvati’s face in her hands, pulling her closer, closer. _More, more_ , she tries to say with her body, not wanting to pull away for even a bare moment as Parvati pulls her down and on top of her, her hands gently commanding. She loves how their curves fit together, the press of Parvati’s chest against her own, how Parvati skims her hands up and down her hips, making her shiver and kindling heat everywhere.

They snog and snog, open mouths, almost sloppy in its franticness. Parvati gets a hand in Lavender’s hair again, tugging slightly, and that’s fire shot through her veins, pulling a low moan from her.

“Oh,” Lavender gasps softly against her mouth as Parvati pulls away slightly, her grip loosening.

“Lavender,” Parvati says. “Tell me what you want to do.”

“You,” she says without a second thought, the impulsiveness that Parvati nearly always brings out so close to the surface. And then she realizes how that sounds. “Um.”

But Parvati is already giggling into her hair, the sound bright and familiar, giving her something to grab onto and hold even as they topple into the unknown. Lavender smiles against Parvati’s neck.

“Can, can we go to your bedroom?” Parvati asks, finally regaining some measure of sobriety.

“Yeah,” Lavender says. She’s thought about this before. About what might happen with a lover, about having to reveal her scarred body to them, how they might react with fear or revulsion. But there is none of that with Parvati. She knows that she will never be a monster in Parvati's eyes. More than that, Lavender knows Parvati, and the parts that she’s less familiar with, she wants to know as intimately as she can.

“Are you sure?” Parvati asks, her voice softening. “If you… if there’s anything you’re not sure about, tell me.”

Lavender inhales, pushing herself up on the sofa, hands on either side of Parvati’s head, so she can look her in the face. Parvati is looking up at her, eyes wide and dark, her lips still slightly parted.

“I trust you. I’ll tell you, and you do the same for me,” Lavender exhales. “And, er, I really want to.”

“You fancy me?” A growing smile, lighting Parvati’s face up. 

“Yes, I properly fancy you,” Lavender laughs, shifting so she can get off the sofa and properly stand up. She offers a hand to Parvati and Parvati takes it, standing up, then grabs Lavender’s other hand.

“I properly fancy you too,” Parvati says softly. “Have, for a while.” And well, that makes Lavender’s heart go all quivery. She smiles even wider and leads Parvati the few steps to her bedroom.

Hands entwined, Parvati guides Lavender back and down on the bed, gently pinning her arms down. Lavender feels cool cotton on the back of her hands and Parvati’s heartbeat thrumming between their tangled hands, her touch so, so warm. She leans down to kiss Lavender again, gently taking her bottom lip between her own lips and biting down slightly, and that small touch sends lust sparking through Lavender’s entire body, intoxicating and all-consuming. A little gasp escapes her mouth and Parvati pulls away slightly, laughing against her mouth.

“You liked that,” she says. It’s not a question. After all, the answer to her question is in Lavender’s flushed cheeks, her dark unfocused eyes, the way she’s breathing heavily against Parvati’s lips.

“I like you,” Lavender says softly. One of Parvati’s hands lets go of hers to trail softly up her arm, her touch delicate through the fabric of Lavender’s cardigan, almost a tease. Abruptly, Lavender wants the cardigan _off,_ wants all their clothes off, only bare skin against skin. She tries to wriggle out of the cardigan but it’s difficult with only one free hand and she nearly ends up hitting Parvati in the face, narrowly brushing her nose with an elbow.

“Morgana, I didn’t mean to…” Lavender is mortified. She had never let herself get that out of control with the past boys she had been with, Ron in sixth year and Anthony in seventh year. No, every movement, every motion of hers had been thought out carefully, leaving no room for awkward bumps or embarrassment. But it had seemed to happen anyway, some inevitable deficit of hers.

“It’s fine!” Parvati laughs. “Last time I went down on someone, she accidentally kneed me in the face, gave me a nosebleed.”

“I’ll try my best not to smack you in the face with my knee,” Lavender says mock-solemnly, making both of them break out in giggles. Parvati buries her face in the crook of Lavender’s neck and her shoulder, smiling into her skin, and again, Lavender finds herself being amazed at how _well_ they fit together.

“So what happened after that?” Lavender asks, her heart beating fast as she puts her free hand on Parvati’s waist, stroking the curve. Parvati pulls back to look her in the face, smiling crookedly. She squeezes the hand that’s still holding Lavender’s, her thumb stroking the lines of her palm, the ones that can foretell her future. But perhaps her future’s pressing against them right now.

“We healed my nose and then we got on with it. The rest of the night was quite fun,” Parvati murmurs, pressing a gentle kiss to Lavender’s nose before she continues. “Do you want me to show you?”

“Help me get out of this first,” Lavender says and Parvati’s dark eyes glint with desire as she takes a sharp breath. She’s never seen Parvati look at her in quite that way before, but this is a night for firsts. Wonderful, incredible firsts that she could never have predicted.

Knees on either side of her hips, Parvati motions for her to sit up and Lavender obeys. She pulls off her cardigan, leaving only her tank top. She’s not wearing a bra and her nipples are visible through the thin pink fabric. When she looks up, Parvati’s staring down at her chest, biting her lips, her breathing heavy, and Lavender’s mouth goes dry with need, a dizzying wave of lust. She wants, needs Parvati’s hands on her—but first, she wants those robes off so she can return the favor.

“These have _so_ many buttons,” she says as casually as she can—which isn’t very much in this current state—and reaches for the collar of Parvati’s robes. “Can I?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Parvati says, looking a little dazed, her mouth hanging slightly open. “Buttons are starting to go out of fashion, I prefer—” she cuts herself off with a gasp as Lavender’s hands make their way down to the middle one and undo it, completely exposing her breasts, clad only in a lacy white bra.

“What do you prefer,” Lavender says into her ear, inhaling the scent that she is named for. It’s harder, not being able to see the buttons she’s undoing now, but they’re nothing compared to the fancy ties that her old dress robes came with. It’s quick, enjoyable work.

“Morgana, just get this off me,” Parvati says and Lavender obeys easily, undoing the last one and then pulling away so Parvati can shrug off the robe. She murmurs a quick wandless spell to send it flying off the bed and hanging neatly in Lavender’s wardrobe and then moves closer to Lavender. Parvati is wearing matching lacy knickers and stockings that mesmerize Lavender with how they emphasize the long lines of her legs.

“Can I take these off?” Parvati asks, hands on Lavender’s hips now, stroking gently over the thin cotton fabric of her shorts. She can already feel how wet she is and it fills her with a thrilling excitement. She wants Parvati to see how wet she is for her, how much of an effect she has on her.

“Yeah,” Lavender says, leaning back on her arms to let Parvati slip her shorts all the way off.

“And can I…” Parvati continues, a hand on Lavender’s thigh, the gentle brush of her touch driving Lavender close to madness.

“Touch me, please,” Lavender nods frantically, pulling Parvati into a kiss, all open mouths, and then she feels her hand brushing over her knickers, two fingers rubbing and making her even wetter before moving up to tease her clit through the thin fabric. She moans into Parvati’s mouth, the kiss sloppy with distraction.

“And, and can I take these off?” Parvati says, her breath heavy on Lavender’s lips.

“Merlin, take everything off,” Lavender says, trying to angle her body to get Parvati’s fingers to rub against her clit even more. Parvati’s quick to listen, pulling off her knickers before tossing them carelessly over her shoulder, and then, hands under her top, barely touching the skin of her stomach. “And this?”

“I have a scar,” Lavender starts and Parvati nods. “It’s big. But I don’t… I don’t mind if you see it. I don’t mind if it’s you.”

“Okay,” Parvati says and then gently tugs the shirt up as she kisses Lavender, soft and sweet and slow, before briefly breaking away to get it completely over her head.

“You’re so beautiful, Lav,” Parvati whispers into her ear before Lavender can stare down at the long jagged gash bisecting her body. She feels Parvati’s hand tracing the curve of one breast, the one with the scar right under it, before her fingers move up to rub over Lavender’s hard nipple.

“Oh, that,” Lavender gasps. “That feels good.”

Parvati gets both her hands on Lavender’s breasts, teasing her nipples between fingers and all she can do is moan shamelessly, the noises obscenely loud in the silence of the cottage. And then Parvati shifts, putting a thigh between her legs and she grinds against the strong line of Parvati’s thigh, overwhelmed with pleasure, with nothing more on her lips than _yes yes yes_ , one hand tight in Parvati’s hair, the other urging her forward with a hand on her hip. And then Parvati moves again, bending her head to suck on a nipple as she moves her hand down to rub Lavender’s clit hard and fast. Before Lavender knows it, she’s tipping over the edge, pleasure numbing all thought, rutting against Parvati’s thigh and hand as Parvati relaxes against her, stroking her hair and kissing her neck.

“Oh, I really liked that,” Lavender manages. Words are inadequate for that mind-shattering pleasure, but she thinks Parvati will get what she means. Or she can just show her. “I want to make you feel good, that good,” she says. “Will you show me what you like?”

“Yeah,” Parvati says, shifting them so they’re both on their sides, facing each other. She takes Lavender’s hand and presses it to her knickers, where it’s already wet, soaked through the fabric. Guided by Parvati’s hand on her wrist, Lavender rubs small circles over Parvati’s cunt, enjoying her soft moans as Parvati undoes her own bra before tossing it over Lavender’s shoulder.

“No hanging spell that time?” Lavender teases.

“Bit distracted here,” Parvati says, before putting a hand on her own breast, rubbing her thumb over the dusky nipple. Her breasts are full and round and Lavender can’t help tipping her head forward and putting her mouth on the other one. She licks the nipple and is rewarded by Parvati’s gasp of “Morgana!” so she teases it with her tongue, getting more gasps out of Parvati. It’s dizzying, having this effect on her. This type of thing had been hinted at in her romance novels, but she never really understood how all-consuming it could be, making someone else feel good.

“You’re… you’re a natural,” Parvati gasps. “I want… take off my knickers.”

Lavender pulls away, earning her a slight groan of disappointment from Parvati. She slides down the knickers and unceremoniously gives them the fate of all their other underthings, tossing them over the side of the bed. Then she looks up at Parvati again and her mouth goes dry with need. Morgana, she wants to put her mouth all over Parvati’s body, press her lips to every inch of skin.

Parvati’s wearing nothing but the stockings now, making her thick thighs look even more incredible, and Merlin, she’s the most gorgeous woman Lavender has ever seen. She leans forward, rubbing Parvati’s cunt again and trying to echo the motions she’s done on herself. With two fingers of one hand she teases Parvati’s clit with round circles and with the other, she slides her finger into the wet heat. And then, for good measure, she puts her mouth on the exposed skin of Parvati’s upper thigh, sucking a mark as Parvati shakes around her fingers.

“Oh, more,” Parvati begs and Lavender slides another one into her, making her gasp and laugh. Her eyes are pressed shut. “One more,” and of course, Lavender obeys, slides a third finger into her, mind sparking with thoughts of later maybe fucking her with something like the toy she has in a drawer, that she uses on herself sometimes. Before long, Parvati’s moaning and coming apart and clenching around her fingers, heels digging into her back.

“Oh,” Parvati says again as Lavender flops down next to her, wiping her fingers on the bedspread. She looks up at Lavender through half-lidded eyes, her breathing slowing.

“That was, um, that was really, really nice," Lavender finally says, a touch of awkwardness to her tone because yes, it was fucking _incredible,_ but even though this is Parvati, she’s got no idea how you’re supposed to navigate just having had mind-blowing sex with your best friend. Most of the novels just skip over this part or have a rival lover enter the story and Lavender isn’t particularly interested in the latter. So they’ll have to get through it, somehow.

“It was so amazing,” Parvati exhales, beaming at her and that sets them both off on a round of laughter, equal parts nervous and joyous, because after all, this is her _best friend_ , prophecies and werewolves be damned.

“Bath?” Lavender asks as Parvati pulls her stockings off, gathering them up with all the other clothes and depositing them on the dresser.

“Yeah,” Parvati says, taking her hand. If they end up getting distracted multiple times by snogging each other up against the lilac-painted walls of the cottage, that’s no one else’s business but their own.

Tiles cold under their feet, Lavender leads Parvati past the toilet and sink to the door on the other side of the bathroom and pushes it open.

“Oh!” Parvati exclaims. That’s right, she wouldn’t have ever seen this when she came for breakfast for full moons or dinner any other time. Lavender smiles, giddy off the knowledge that she can still surprise Parvati even now that her desire has been laid bare. 

In the center of the pink-tiled floor is a large ceramic white tub rimmed in gold. Bordering one side is a long row of taps. Each of them is topped with a different jewel, transfigured from rocks she'd found in the garden.

Wanting to have something warm and comforting to get her through the long winter moons, Lavender had spent a month working out the expansion spells and all the other necessary charms to get her bath looking how Padma had described the Prefect bathrooms. It had taken her quite a bit of trial and error and she’d had to completely cannibalize the old bathtub along with several of the perfumes she'd bought from Harrods, but she had eventually managed it. Although she’d never been top in her class, it was easier to do magic when there was no one else watching you, no one who’d try to compare their marks with you, no other distractions.

“There are taps too, not as many as the ones at Hogwarts, but…”

“No, this is brilliant,” Parvati beams, taking a step forward. “It’s exactly like that time I went with Michael. Terrible at kissing, but getting the password to the Prefect bathrooms almost made it all worth it.”

“You don’t need to snog boys to get a nice bath now,” Lavender smiles as she turns the diamond handle of the largest tap in the row’s very center, sending steaming hot water floating into the tub. The rushing noise of the water echoes in the small space of the room.

“No, just you,” Parvati lets out a delighted laugh. She walks over, wrapping her arms around Lavender’s middle, as they watch the tub fill up. Soon enough, the tub’s nearly full and they wade in together, holding hands as they descend the steps carved into one side of the tub. The water comes up to chest height, just barely showing the tops of Parvati’s breasts.

“Does this have bubbles?”

“Of course! It’s the one on the very left,” Lavender tells her. Mint bubbles spray out of the jade tap, growing larger the more time they spend in the air. “Do the one next to it too.”

“Oh, that smells so nice,” Parvati exclaims as the scents of orchids mingled with jasmine enter the air.

“I made it from a perfume we bought at Harrods,” Lavender tells her, drawing Parvati back into her arms, putting her hands on the curve of her waist. She kisses up Parvati’s neck, brushing her dark hair back over one shoulder so that she can press her lips to the join of Parvati’s neck and jaw.

“How long does the warming charm on this last?”

“Um… a while,” Lavender says, remembering past baths on bad days, baths that lasted hours and made her fingers and toes all wrinkly.

Parvati turns around in her arms and kisses her on the mouth before smiling against her lips. “Good. I have plans.”

Later, back in bed, her hair wrapped in silk and their bodies covered by the woolly comforter, tangling their legs together. Lavender puts her arms around Parvati’s waist snugly. “Er, I think I need… I need more time.”

“For what?” Parvati asks, stroking her cheekbone. Her hair is still damp, beautiful dark lines on her temple. 

“Time to get used to this, us two together,” Lavender ventures and it feels rather like she’s jumping off the Astronomy Tower, her stomach swooping with anxiety and excitement. But she's not alone. 

“Oh, Lav,” Parvati says softly and then kisses her for the hundredth, thousandth time that night, slow and deep and gentle. “I’ll give you all the time in the world.”

* * *

In the morning, they sit on the front step together, steaming hot cups of tea in their hands and the quilt over their shoulders, watching the slow crawl of sunlight over the gentle sloping green meadows that surround her cottage.

“Oh, I think they’re blooming,” Parvati says next to her.

“Hmm?” Lavender asks, gaze still fixed on the distance.

“The roses!” Parvati exclaims, setting down her cup and going over to one of the bushes. Lavender puts down her own cup and follows.

Against the dark green thorniness of the bush, there is a small jot of pink, looking so delicate that a touch could destroy it. Or help it bloom, coaxing it into fullness.

“With a little time…” Parvati murmurs, looking around the garden eagerly in anticipation. Lavender thinks of the garden in a few weeks, brimming with blossoming roses, and a smile blooms on her face. With a little time, it will all unfold, a consolation for the scratching thorns and long wait. It might reach out towards others again, pick up a quill and parchment and send an owl off, return to old friends. She takes Parvati’s hand and looks to the future with an open heart.


End file.
